


Un, Deux, Trois

by Cinderscream



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Dark is terrible, Gen, Goes with the theory that dark took the host's eyes, The host is a sad boy, Though its more implied, but whats new
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-12-12 03:40:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11728743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinderscream/pseuds/Cinderscream
Summary: Reintroducing himself to a group of people who'd hardly meant much to him before should not be anywhere as hard as it is.Or the Host learns to heal





	Un, Deux, Trois

**Author's Note:**

> I posted this a month or two ago on tumblr but I not on here so here it is

“Who are you?”, asks Bim, eyes bright with curiosity. 

His hands clench at the material of his coat, lips pressing together. There are several more eyes turned in his direction, intent on burning his every feature into their minds. It shouldn’t be so hard, reintroducing himself to a group he’d never considered particularly relevant, a group he’d hardly interacted with before, but somehow it feels like the hardest thing he’s ever done. He’s sure nobody recognizes him, he looks too different from the last time they’d seen him so long ago. 

However, one pair of eyes look to him with something akin to recognition, a memory faded and changed with passage of time. He’s reminded of the first time he’d been introduced, when he’d truly been fresh and new and he’d seemed to have the world at his fingertips. There’d been only one person that mattered to him then too. 

_The many faces that swivel around to face him when he glides into the room does nothing to faze him, too confident in his abilities to feel threatened. Wilford shoots him a cheerful smile when he passes by and he returns it with one of his own. It slides off as soon as he turns away and he throws the other occupants an unimpressed look. He doubts he’ll continue to attend these meetings, only came to this one because Wilford told him he’d need to introduce himself._

_He catches the ego at the other end of the table staring at him, mouth hidden behind his glitching, silvery hands and his eyes displaying an odd sort of interest. He stares him down and neither of them turn away._

_“Who are you?” asks one of the other egos in a nervous attempt to break the tension._

_His blank expression morphs into a dangerous smile, sharp as glass at the edges. He’d brought his bat with him as a precaution of sorts and taps it lightly against his hand._

_“I am the Author”, he answers._

 He’d been… arrogant then, too sure in his powers, too sure of his own intelligence. He remembers hearing Dark’s voice in his ear, a soft and beguiling “join me” and his own resounding “no”. He has yet to forget the surprise verging on terror the first time he’d seen Dark’s shell crack. It was a formative experience. 

 The hand latched onto his shoulder squeezes and he startles out of his thoughts, the intense curiosity filling the room catching him the moment his guard slips. He hates how vulnerable he is to the emotions of others after having been isolated for so long. 

 “You were asked a question, it would be rude not to answer it”, Dark hums, his grip verging on uncomfortable. 

 The Host swallows, strengthens his resolve and ignores the sharp prickle of Wilford’s gaze. 

 “I am the Host.” 

 There is no slick smile, no rebellious blaze in his eye. Wilford isn’t grinning at him (he looks shaken, actually) and Dark is beside him this time, a chain he’d sworn he’d never wear. The Host takes his seat after carefully extricating himself from Dark’s grip, crossing his arms tightly over the table. The chatter thankfully picks up again, though he can feel Wilford’s attention on him still. The events of the day itch at his rising anxiety, Dark pushing him to attend a meeting after being gone for so long, the cacophony of sights and sounds rushing at him, the accusing eyes of his once dear friend. 

 The Host narrates, softly as he can, opens himself up to See into just the immediate future. It makes him feel just a little more in control, helps in relieving some of the built up stress. The meeting goes by in a blur, catalogued in his head as something to probably forget later. It isn’t his job to record these things. He hasn’t really absorbed anything despite narrating it, mind too buzzed with filling in the changes in his environment. 

 He stands, but freezes when Wilford’s voice cuts through prattle. 

 “Have we met before?” he asks, his slur almost noticeably thicker. The Host wants to say no, to say that it would be impossible for them to have met before. He wants to look him in the eye, smile, and say that he’s never seen him before in his life. That’s impossible for numerous reasons. Dark shifts behind him, an impatient shadow that nudges him in warning. 

 “Yes”, the Host says, soft and inflectionless. He wonders if it’s possible to leave without breaking Wilford’s heart, uses his Sight for any alternate routes, and finds none. The thought of lying leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. 

 There’s an emotion glimmering in Wilford’s eye, and the Host winces at it, knows he’s one of the few if not the only one who picks up on it. 

 “You are the Author.” Wilford’s tone is firm, though strangely soft. One wouldn’t need the Host’s powers to trace the grief on his face or his voice. It swirls around him almost like an aura, thick and cloying. If they were standing closer, the Host could swear he’d choke on it. Instead he suffocates on the tension, the other egos watching the exchange with a morbid sort of rapture. None of them had ever seen Wilford so serious. 

 The Host sighs, deep and just the slightest bit shaky. 

 “The Author is dead.” He doesn’t stay for Wilford’s response, strides out of the room as fast as his narration will allow him (still manages to bump into the table and curses himself for not memorizing the room better). Dark appears beside him, though the Host hadn’t heard his steps. His hand finds his shoulder once more, brushes against his neck and he shudders at the hint of a cold burn. 

 … 

He finds the library at the headquarters as underwhelming as always so he brings in his own collection, glad that they exist in a place where the the laws of the normal world have no bearing. No one seems to have noticed that there’s more shelves piled high with books, which is fine, hardly anyone goes there anyway. That’s a good thing, he thinks, less people to bother him or ask questions. Dark doesn’t go into the library often either. 

 Writing isn’t as convenient as it once was, and while he knows his handwriting is as elegant as ever, it takes twice the concentration. It hurts a little that he can’t see it, the familiar curves and smooth lines and describing it mentally isn’t enough. His pen slips onto the table and he grits his teeth, hating the dissonance of the wood when the paper had been so smooth. The Host sets his pen down. He leans back in his chair and rubs his hands against his face, carefully of the damp bandage over his eyes. He still ends up with blood on his hands. 

 The Host wipes his hands off on the handkerchief in his pocket, already stained a delightful rust. He tries instead to read, finds the same problem, and shuts the book in frustration. He sits up when he senses a presence other than his own, someone with a humming inner core, limbs that wir as they move. There’s mess dark hair, intelligent eyes that gleam behind black-framed glasses. His blue shirt is neat and the large G in the center glows in the dim lighting of the back shelves. 

 Oh. It’s Google. 

 The Host only vaguely remembers anything from their few meetings, and his head refuses to conjure up anything more than a fleeting dislike and frustration. He wishes he knew why he feels that way about him, wishes he could have more than intangible impressions about people who he knows (knew) even if not very well. He wonders if he might have had better recollections of them if he’d actually spent time with them. (It might explain how he remembers Wilford so clearly when everything else is a blur). 

 The Host doesn’t blame his past self for preferring solitude, but he does wish he might have been the tiniest bit more social. It might have helped the tenuous hold he has on who he was. 

 He stiffens when Google’s soft footsteps approach him, his arms laden with a collection of fantasy novels (strange, the Host pegged him for more of a sci-fi type). They don’t speak for a while, neither exactly comfortable with each other’s presence but refusing to interrupt the quiet of the library. The Host goes back to writing, adding the scratching of his pen to the hum of Google’s core. He pauses when Google finally speaks. 

 “I could translate them to braille, if you wish”, says Google, his voice pleasant if not particularly emotional. 

 The Host dismisses the idea almost immediately, bristling at the idea of needing to turn his precious books to braille to be able to enjoy them. Google shuffles beside him, and he can sense an unusual flash of hurt and offense in the air. 

 “I thought you hated fulfilling tasks for others”, he points out, remembering the fury Google had exuded when one of the other egos had asked him to wash the dishes. He’d broken three before Wilford intervened. 

 “It’s different when I am the one who offers to do a task. I consider it… an act of acceptance.” Google looks straight at him, something none of the other egos seem to be able to do and the Host can’t help but feel warmed by the offer. It’s not an offer influenced by Dark, not something he’ll have to repay with blood. 

“I suppose”, he trails off, examines the emotions whirling in the air (and Google seems genuine enough, though he wishes he had to courage to touch him, to take his thoughts into account). 

“I suppose it would make reading easier”, he answers and is (delightedly) surprised by the honest smile that curls on Google’s lips.

 And the Host might not remember, but Google does, has their previous encounters recorded in his databanks. It wasn’t quite kindness that the Author treated him with, but with a certain lack of condescension that even Dark did not afford him. 

_They’re in the library, Google eyeing the disorganized pile of books scattered on the table and surrounding an older ego. His eyes are glued on the journal in front of him, muttering softly under his breath, hand scrambling to keep up with his mouth. Google tries to go back to his book, a pleasant story about a bored genius of child who kidnaps a fairy officer for money, but finds himself listening to the Author’s incessant rambling instead. The Author’s speech is quiet, but Google’s hearing is heightened and precise._

_It’s a story, falling quick as a waterfall and spilling onto the Author’s pages, rapturous and fascinating. He doesn’t know how long he just spends listening, but finds himself disappointed when the Author abruptly cuts himself off. Google frowns, watching as the Author scratches a word out, writes another, growls, and scratches that one out as well._

_Google eyes the page and offers a word for him to use._

_“Fuck off”, the Author retorts, not looking at him but using the word anyways. He goes back to writing, occasionally scanning one of the books around him._

He’d been louder back then. He’d more energetic, more animated in his writing. The Host is very much the opposite of what he’d been then, quiet, still, and cautiously polite. Google isn’t sure if he likes this version better. He’d been amused by the crude language of the Author if only because it contrasted so wildly with his elegant script, but the Host holds a certain charm. 

 It doesn’t matter he concludes. As Dark is fond of saying, dwelling on the past is of no use. 

 … 

The Host isn’t quite sure what to make Yandere when he first meets him. There’s a familiar aura that flickers around him, something thick that clogs in his throat, something cold and distasteful. But for all that he reads like Dark (ominous, cunning, a viper hidden in a meadow), he isn’t anything like him. 

He’s never trusted any of Dark’s smiles, always felt them like a blade against his throat. He knows Yandere is violent and has about as much trouble killing as Wilford, but none of the grins directed towards him have been anything but kind. If the Host weren’t so averse to touch, he might have reached out, cupped his face and absorbed whatever positivity flickered through his thoughts to keep the darkness away. 

For whatever reason, Yan has made it his mission to be his friend. 

Even with his patchwork memory, he knows Yan hadn’t existed before he became the Host. He’s a very young Ego, definitely the youngest in mentality at sixteen and made a point to wear only feminine clothing. Yan had asked for a story, something to help him sleep so the Host weaves a tale tailored just for him, a fantasy about a princess and her dragon on an adventure to save her prince. 

 Yan’s eyes are wide as he listens, completely engrossed in the drama and looking nowhere near sleep. 

“You have the best storyteller voice”, he says when the Host takes a pause for breath, eyes sparkling in awe. 

 The Host smiles at him, little more than a lift at the corner of his lips, but a true one that seems to brighten his face. If he had eyes, they surely would have softened with it. The total number of people who enjoy his presence has come up to a whopping total of two (which is far more than he’d thought he’d be able to accomplish to be honest). 

 He doesn’t count Dark. His last friend had been a murderous journalist and since he refuses to talk to him (or look at him) he can settle for the murderous robot and teenager. Both at least seem to love his stories. The Host continues his tale, and watches as the late hour begins to use its charm on the tired student sitting on the couch next to him. For all his excitement, he’s still a teen drowning under the stress of school and the Host knows he needs sleep. The Host himself doesn’t sleep much (has never needed or even desired much sleep). Yan’s eyes grow heavy, his head drooping to rest on his chest and then snapping back up again, blinking owlishly to try to keep away the exhaustion calling him to bed. 

 The Host purposefully softens his voice, gentles it so that it wraps around the younger ego like a warm blanket. It’s a strong combination, too strong for Yan to resist and he falls asleep rather quickly, slumping onto the Host’s shoulder. He freezes, knowing it was coming and still not prepared for the weight of his body toppling onto him. It’s, oddly enough, not comforting. Google’s so far respecter his need for a bubble of personal space and the other egos naturally gravitate away from him. The only one who consistently touches him is Dark. 

He remembers how just that morning, Dark had leaned against him, the weight of his body like an anchor, words whispered into his ear like a dose of poison. The resemblance of Yan and Dark’s aura’s suddenly feels like too much. He slips away from Yan as carefully as he can and bolts the second he knows he’s properly asleep. He needs the solitude of the library to calm his racing heart. 

Yan wakes the next day cold and disappointed, loneliness sinking in like an old friend. He wonders why he thought he’d wake to something different. 

 … 

The break room, the Host thinks, is a fascinating place. 

 It shouldn’t surprise him, considering it’s located in Wilford’s studio, but he’s had a bit of a surprising day. The Host didn’t think he’d get his own radio show in one of the studio’s branches and he didn’t think Wilford would smile on him today. Sure it was one of his plastic, would-rather-be-doing-anything-other-than-this smiles, the type he’d use when dealing with Dark, but he’d looked at him (or just slightly to the left of him) and he’d shown an emotion other than betrayal. So. The Host counts it as a win. 

 He’d even been lucky enough to get a bland “welcome to the studio”. The Host hadn’t been sure if it was possible for Wilford’s voice to sound anything but cheerful and now he knows he can do sarcasm and mocking. 

 He sighs and tries bury himself in the cushions of the tiny break room couch. It’s incredible how tiring it can get, trying to navigate around an incredibly busy studio with so many sets being built and people being directed. The output of it all gives him a migraine, leaves his head feeling wooly and he hopes it’ll subside by the time he needs to leave for his second segment. There’s rocky road in the fridge at least, a small, half-finished pint that he does his best to savor. 

 The Host is on his third spoonful when the door opens and he’s slammed with a tidal wave of anxiety. He recognizes Bim, and frowns at the labored breathing that fills the room as he closes the door. Bim’s breath hitches when he catches sight of him and the nauseating feeling of anxiety thickens. The Host shushes him very gently, but doesn’t approach him, sure that if he does, he’ll spook him away. 

 He doesn’t know if it’s much better when Bim starts to cry, sliding down the door to curl up into as small a ball as possible, shoulders heaving with sobs, a position that makes the Host uncomfortable it its familiarity. He takes a breath, hoping Bim won’t reject his attempt at comfort. 

 His steps are quiet and he makes it the short distance to the door in seconds. He squats down to be level with Bim, taking in his rumpled suit, the way his usually sleek hair pokes out in different directions. 

 “What’s wrong?” He asks, voice pitched low and gentle. Bim peeks at him from behind his hands, eyes very red and very sad. The Host waits patiently, Bim would tell when he’s ready. 

 “I screwed up, I screwed up so badly, Wilford’s going to hate me, oh my god”, he whimpers and the Host winces at the mention of Wilford. He’s quick to shake it off, and very, very carefully sets his hands on Bim’s shoulders, repressing a shiver at the way the his emotions intensify at the contact. 

 He pitches his voice lower, a soothing, satin register that seems to always calm others down (though, to be honest, he’d only ever used it on Yandere). 

“You’re fine, Wilford doesn’t hate you and nothing you do could make him. You’re okay”, he says gently. It works and Bim’s shoulders loosen and to the Host’s shock he finds himself with a pile of messy, sobbing reality warper wrapping his arms around him, burying his face in his chest. The Host buffers. 

He has no idea how to react, has to take a moment to remember where he is and that Bim isn’t a threat to him, isn’t hurting him. The Host has to remind himself that Bim is only seeking comfort and that in throwing his arms around him, he means no harm. It doesn’t stop his heart from picking up pace or his breathing from becoming shallow. 

 Bim probably picks up his discomfort and detaches himself, eyes wide and apologetic. The air is almost cloyingly thick with anxiety and fear and the Host curses himself for freezing. 

 “I’m so sorry, I didn’t-didn’t, I-please”, he stutters, and cuts himself off with another choked sob before burying his face back in his hands. 

 “I can’t do anything right.” His voice is muffled but self hatred is clear in his tone. 

 The Host tries his best to stop his heart from beating its way out of his chest and get his breathing back in order. It doesn’t quite work as well as he’d like, but he’s calmer than Bim, at least. 

 “No, it’s fine, I’m just not… very used to contact. You’ve done nothing wrong”, the Host assures him, twisting his lips in what he hopes is a convincing smile. It resembles a grimace more than anything. 

 Bim peaks at him from between his fingers. “Are you sure?” 

 His eyes land on on the wet patches on the Host’s coat. 

 “Oh, sorry…” He chews on his bottom lip, unsure of what to do. 

 “It’s okay”, the Host assures him and wonders why, for all his prowess with words, that’s all he seems to be able to say. He berates himself for his ungainly approach, mentally shakes himself, and tries again. 

 “What happened?” He keeps his tone benign, tries to salvage his cool facade. 

Bim looks away, shame-faced and looking very much like he’d like to be anywhere else. He wrings his hands, eyes flickering away in uncertainty. The Host tries to make himself look more affable and sincere, though in the back of his head he questions why does he even care? 

 (Some tiny voice, also residing in the back of his mind, whispers that he’s desperate for affection that won’t end in violence or that doesn’t have a price attached to it. It hisses at him that he misses the easy, tactile companionship he had with Wilford before becoming Dark’s miserable little prophet. He violently shoves that voice back into it’s tiny pocket of void to never be looked at again). 

 “Wilford let me have his time-slot since he was sick. It’s a bigger audience than I’m used to, but I thought I could handle it! Wilford said I’d be great and I don’t know what happened, if it was my anxiety or just the fact that I’m terrible but I choked, I fucked up really bad, I-I”, he hiccups and doesn’t continue, gestures helplessly instead. 

 The Host laughs. 

 The look Bim shoots him is nothing if not indignant and more than a little confused, but the Host gives him a gentle pat to his shoulder 

 “He’d never hate you for causing a chaos”, he assures, “Wilford’s always been a fan of messy endings.” 

 “How would you know?” Bim asks petulantly, though he looks cautiously hopeful. The Host manages a rueful grin, glad that at least now his eyes can’t give away his sadness. 

 “We used to be very close friends”, he answers, subdued. 

 “And you aren’t now?” 

 “Things change.” 

 They sit in silence for a moment. Bim uncurls and the Host’s shoulders loosen, the previous tension dispersing. Bim no longer feels like a spring coiled too tight and on the verge of breaking. The Host stands and goes back to the couch and frowns at what used to be a pint of rocky road, now a pint of half-melted sludge, a water stain of the couch where the Host had left it. Bim seems to hear him narrating about the melted ice-cream under his breath because he perks up, eyes significantly brighter. 

 He also stands, straightens his suit and tie and attempts to quickly fix his hair back into place. His shoes make a quiet click against the tiles of the break room floor and while he’s still timid, he seems to have something he wants to prove. 

 “You like rocky road?” he asks, trying to sound more confident and succeeding for the most part if not for the slight tremor in his voice. 

 “Yes, but it seems to have melted.” 

 Bim gives him a tumultuous grin, still wary but willing to believe the Host isn’t quite as horrible as Dark. At the very least, for all that his company makes him suspicious, he hasn’t asked for anything in return. 

 “I can fix that.” He concentrates very carefully on his powers of manipulation, putting his hands on the carton until it goes from luke-warm to properly cold. 

His eyes gleam with excitement when he sees that he’s converted the ice-cream back to its icy glory without altering anything else in the process. He’s actually a little surprised that he hadn’t altered anything through his whole emotional breakdown, though he suspects the Host might have had something to do with it. Bim hadn’t been able to catch everything he muttered as he tried to navigate his way through their interaction. 

 They’re rather content to sit on couch and share the ice-cream. They still don’t have a good handle on each other (Bim still finds the Host to be just a bit frightening and the Host finds Bim a little too much of a devotee), but they don’t hate each other. 

 It’s a start, and eventually, with the help of a violin and a few succulent plants, their acquaintanceship becomes a friendship. 

 … 

After all the strange injuries Dr. Iplier’s seen over the years of being the ego medic, a few bruises shouldn’t particularly bother him. 

 It starts, of course, with the damn bandage. Their eyes seem to gravitate towards it and as soon as they’re met with a crusty, bloody off-white cloth instead of the usual brown eyes of nearly any other ego, they’re compelled to look away. Dr. Iplier, like everyone else, wants to know what happened, wants to know the horror beneath it. And, to his surprise, he does. Just not in the way he’d thought. 

 Granted, he’d never thought he’d ever get to know either way. 

 He enters what he thinks is an empty room in an effort to look for a quiet space to breath, knowing that if he stays in his office, someone will inevitably show up to complain over something minor. It’s not quite as empty as he thought it was. Dr. Iplier’s astonished to find the Host in the room already, spouting a waterfall of hardly audible curses and, most surprising of all, not wearing his bandage. 

 In the place of his eyes are dark, empty voids, though there doesn’t seem to be any scarring that points out whether they were burned or scratched out. There’s more blood smeared on his cheeks than usual, beyond the teardrop patterns and looking more like someone had tried to scrub them away and failed, spreading it out more. The Host’s hands are spattered with drying red-brown stains and there’s a mess of scattered bandages around him, all reddened to some degree. There’s a roll next to him that looks like it’s been thrown in frustration and his lips are pulled back in an irritated snarl. 

 Dr. Iplier clears his throat, surprised that he hasn’t been spotted yet (or read or whatever it is the Host does to interact with his environment. The Host jumps, startled, and growls as he thumps into the table, disturbing the badges on it. He whips around, face twisted in a defensive hiss, but deflates when he seems to sense him at the door. The Host shrinks in on himself, quickly gathering his things into his arms and doing his damndest not to let Dr. Iplier see his face. 

 “I’m sorry, you shouldn’t have to see this, I’ll go, I’m so sorry”, he rambles, stumbling around the table and chairs, leaving a trail of bandages in his wake and narrating sloppily to get out of the room as fast as possible. 

 He nearly trips, but Dr. Iplier catches him, not missing the way he flinches nor the way he trembles under his fingertips. the Host struggles almost wildly to escape his grip so he tightens his hold on his biceps to the Host’s terror. 

“Please, I’m sorry, let me leave, please, I didn’t mean to”, he nearly croaks, flailing, not even trying to narrate his way out though Dr. Iplier knows he has the power to tear him apart. 

 “Hey, calm down, I’m not gonna hurt you”, he soothes, concern coiling in his gut, his hold gentling, but still firm. He doesn’t know why, but the abject horror that shines clear on the Host’s face makes his insides churn. 

 “Let me help you”, he pleads, carefully pushing the host back into a chair. There’s more blood than before, wet and bright red streaks smeared on white coat. 

 He takes the wet wipes from the table and runs them against the Host’s cheeks, against his hands. He keeps as composed as possible and tries not let his apprehension leak. The Host keeps his mouth clamped shut and Dr. Iplier wonders if, from what he’s heard from Bim, this is the host’s way to keep himself truly blinded. 

 Dr. Iplier sets the wipes side and reaches for a clean roll of bandages. He wraps them with care around the host’s head, keeping them firm and neat, but not uncomfortable. it’s always bothered him how messy his bandages were (among other things). He finishes up and wipes his hands on his already stained coat, not minding the mess. 

 “See? Not too bad”, he huffs with a wan smile, hoping to find some sort of levity. 

 The Host is quiet for a moment, lips pursed and hands clenched tightly into the material of his coat. 

 “Thank you”, he say faintly, looking oddly pallid. 

 “It’s no problem.” Dr. Iplier deliberates for a moment and continues. 

“Actually… would it be okay if I change your bandages regularly from now on? It would probably make life easier for you. And hey! If you’re nervous about the whole no eyes thing, it’s not a problem. I’m a doctor, trust me when i say I’ve seen worse.” 

 The Host is quiet and Dr. Iplier thinks that maybe he’s overstepped his boundaries on someone he hardly knows when the Host stands, walks up to him, and carefully brushes his fingertips against his hand. Dr. Iplier keeps still, aware that the Host is still one of the stronger egos. His face tightens for a second before he steps back, a strange look of determination on his face. 

“Yes, thank you, doctor. I accept you offer.” The fear from earlier melts away to a crisp composer. Dr. lplier didn’t expect him to take the offer, but he’s relieved he did. 

 Except now it’s a few weeks later and the bruises that ring around the Host’s wrists niggle at his mind like thought consuming parasites. He’d only caught sight of them by accident, had spotted them out o the corner of his eye and hadn’t even registered them as bruises until the Host had hastily pulled his sleeve down, almost immediately shutting down. 

 He holds the Host’s forearm, his knotting insides making an unwanted encore as he examines the dark markings. Dr. Iplier is pretty sure bruises shouldn’t look that painful, nor should they last as long as they do. The Host doesn’t answer his questions about them and the one time Dr. Iplier had mentioned Dark, the Host nearly had a panic attack. 

 It infuriates him everytime he look at them, and hates that he can do little more than rub cream on them. He can’t talk to the Host about them and he can’t confront Dark about them because he knows he wouldn’t stand a chance.  

What’s worse is that the longer he spends around the Host, the more he’s exposed to Dark’s torture (his taunting words, his burning skin, and his terribly hypnotising eyes). Not for the first time, Dr. Iplier wishes he could see more than the worst things happening in the lives of others. 

 But at the very least, the Host allows him to touch him. Dr. Iplier’s learned that the Host isn’t welcoming of touch, isn’t entirely comfortable with it. Yan fusses about it sometimes, but otherwise understands that the Host prefers his space.  

He’s different with Dr. Iplier. At first, he’d hated it, jerked away every time Dr. Iplier went for his bandage, snatched his hand away if their skin brushed and generally hated being handled in anyway. Now, Dr. Iplier can rub soothing cream into his skin and the host won’t so much as tremble, almost as relaxed as when he wrote. 

 And he smiles more, wider, a hint of playfulness at the edges and Dr. Iplier feels something in his heart warm. 

 … 

It’s at the end of his broadcast that the Host feels the icy finger of a vision, a bad one, sliding up his spine. He gasps, feels himself begin to tremble and scans around wildly for the nearest empty room. There’s a janitor’s closet nearby, to his relief, and he scrambles toward it with fervor, not bothering to narrate himself around possible obstacles. He almost trips over a decorative plant in his haste. 

 The Host collapses into the small space, just barely managing to close the door. There’s a broom digging into his back but it’s nothing to the pain crackling in his skull, threatening to rip it apart. His breathing is harsh and his heartbeat feels off tempo, like a child new to marching band and unable to keep sight of the drum major. 

_He clutches at his chest, blunt fingernails digging into his skin through his thin shirt. The world around him shifts, moving from the usual darkness of his blindness to something that seems to have a presence of its own, a darkness that presses down on him like shrinking walls. There’s hands around his neck, a furious voice hissing in his ear, both warning and threat._

_He hears sobbing that’s not his own, feels his heart squeeze when he recognizes Bim’s agonized pleads to please stop. Blood drips to the floor and Bim holds his hands to his ears the way the Host had held his to his eyes after his transformation. His skin feels like it’s burning and he wants out out out but the vision is relentless, assaulting him with sights and sounds he can’t make sense of._

_The smell of burnt plants, acrid and terrible violates his nose, soft whimpers almost too faint for his ears to pick up echo in the distance, the feeling of being trapped with no way out snares his heart which beats like that of a cornered rabbit’s. He’s never been able to get used to the intensity, worse than the migraines, worse than the bullet, the closest he’s gotten to reliving the pain of the Transformation._  

 Finally, finally it fades and he’s left choking in an attempt to draw air back into his lungs. He’s curled into as tight a ball as he can manage, mutters furiously to try to get a hold of his surroundings in between gasps for air. 

It takes him a moment to realize he’s torn his bandages off and that his eyes are bleeding freely. It takes him another to notice the door’s open and someone’s standing there watching him. 

 It’s Wilford. 

 He rips his hands away from where they’re tangled in his hair and covers his eyes, unwilling to let Wilford see him the damage beneath the bandages. 

“Don’t- don’t look at me”, he rasps, shrinking away, legs still too weak to try to make an escape. 

 “Author?” Wilford whispers and the Host jerks back, feeling as if he’d been slapped. 

 “He’s dead”, spits the Host, drawn so taut he looks like he’ll snap at the slightest touch. 

 “Then who are you?” Wilford’s voice is filled with a quiet desperation that twists like a knife in the Host’s chest. He’s still breathing heavily and exhaustion clings to his eyelids like anchors. 

 “What happened to the Author?” He’s getting closer, but the Host doesn’t have the energy or space to move away. 

 “He was shot. Dark thought it’d be better to get rid of him altogether because he was too weak. He wouldn’t be the same. Dark was right; the Host is not the same.” 

 “Do you still like the violin?” 

 He’s kneeling in front of him, radiating a mix of emotions the Host is too tired to identify. 

 “Of course.” 

 “Do you still tell a helluva story?” 

 The Host manages a quirk of his lips, as close to a smile as he can get. 

 “Only the best.” 

 It’s cramped in the closet, but Wilford doesn’t care, carefully cradles the Host to his chest, unbothered by the blood, letting him bury his face into his shirt. 

“I’m so, so sorry, my friend”, he whispers into his hair, eyes trained on the curious streak of gold in the Host’s black curls. The Host sighs, for the first time relaxed in the embrace of another. Wilford’s hugs had always felt like home. 

“It’s. It’s not your fault. I’ve never blamed you.” 

 The Host has never seen Wilford cry. He can’t say he has, even as teardrops drip into his hair.


End file.
